


Dreams

by SqueakGirl



Series: Perchance to Dream [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel in the Bunker, Castiel's Loss of Grace, Dreams, Drunk Dean, Gen, M/M, Mark of Cain, Nightmares, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 17:42:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3390437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SqueakGirl/pseuds/SqueakGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do angels dream of angelic sheep? In an attempt to conserve energy, Castiel tries to sleep. Sam and Dean suggest that he count sheep, but Castiel doesn't find that very helpful. Perhaps there's a better way to get the sleep he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last story in my series Perchance to Dream. I thought it would be nice to wrap everything up with Castiel. It helps if you go back and read the first two stories as I do reference them in this one, but it's not completely necessary.

Castiel finds his bed in the Bunker adequately soft and spacious as he lies upon it, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t need to sleep, but his borrowed Grace leaves him cautious about the amount of energy he has left. Castiel believes sleeping, albeit a little, might help stave off his inevitable self-destruction. 

Tonight he’s managed to drift in and out of unconsciousness a few times, but nothing he can truly call sleep. Perhaps angels are just too abuzz with celestial energy to properly participate in this particular human ritual, Castiel muses to himself. 

First, he tries the usual human habits of removing his shoes and overcoat before climbing under the covers. He pulls them close to his head and closes his eyes, curling his knees up to his chest. After a few minutes, Castiel grows uncomfortable in that position and rolls over. He stretches out his limbs and readjusts his head on his pillow. But even that position doesn’t help.

Castiel kicks away the covers and sits up. He hesitates at the edge of his bed, listening to the sounds of the Bunker. Although it’s past midnight, Sam and Dean are still awake. They returned earlier that evening from a Hunt they had undertaken several states away and apparently are celebrating with alcohol. Castiel can hear the clink of glasses and Dean’s laughter echo throughout the Bunker. 

He sits and listens for several minutes. He can hear them talking about the Mark of Cain as well as some habit Sam has which involves pinching his left palm. Castiel is confused about the latter half of their conversation, but is happy to note that their talk does not appear to be taking a sour turn despite the topics.

Finally, Castiel chooses to leave his room and greet the Winchesters. Without pulling on his shoes or overcoat, he shuffles out into the hallway.

He finds Sam and Dean lounging in the Bunker’s library. They sit at one of the long polished tables, both nursing glasses of whiskey, the bottle resting open next to Sam’s laptop. Sam smiles into his drink as Dean lets out a short bark of laughter at whatever joke Sam had just finished telling him. 

Castiel stands in the entryway, not sure if he should interrupt, but Sam and Dean spot him at the same time and wave him over. He moves to sit in a chair at the end of the table with Dean on his left and Sam on his right. Sam pours him his own glass of whiskey, and Dean gives the angel a drunken grin, scooting his chair closer.

“How you been, Cas?” Dean asks. 

“Well,” Castiel answers. He takes his glass of whiskey from Sam, “Thank you.” He holds it in both hands and examines the amber liquid. He tips the glass back and forth, watching the whiskey swish around.

Sam clears his throat. “How’s the borrowed Grace?” Across from Sam, Dean’s grin falters. 

Castiel keeps his eyes on his glass. “I’m alright at the moment,” he confesses. “I’ve been trying to conserve energy by sleeping.”

Dean downs the dregs of his whiskey and sets his glass down with a soft ‘thunk’ on the table. He nods to Sam to pour him another two fingers from the bottle. Sam reluctantly obliges, giving his older brother a reproachful look.

“You don’t sleep,” Dean states the obvious once he’d taken a fresh sip from his glass. 

“I’m aware,” Castiel replies finally taking a sip of his own whiskey. He grimaces as all he tastes is molecules. “I just felt it wouldn’t hurt to try. So far I have been unsuccessful.”

Sam asks, “Can you not get to sleep at all? Like is it a physical impossibility?”

Castiel waves his hand nonchalantly. “No. In a vessel, an angel is capable of sleep – not that they ever need it. However, in my true form, that would be a completely different story, but as I am now, I can sleep. It’s getting to sleep that’s the problem.”

Dean leans his elbows on the table, moving into Castiel’s personal space. Castiel can smell the alcohol coming off of Dean’s breath, and he wonders how many glasses (or even bottles) Sam has allowed him before Castiel even entered the room. 

Dean smirks. “Try counting sheep?”

Castiel laughs. “I still don’t understand that.”

“The point of counting sheep is to more or less just count. It’s kind of a mindless thing you can do that helps you fall asleep,” Sam explains. “It doesn’t necessarily have to be sheep, but sheep all look the same, right? So it’s boring, monotonous. The more boring, the more people think it’ll help you fall asleep.”

“Ah, I see,” Castiel says, but he doesn’t really. “Am I supposed to try and dream about sheep? Because I haven’t dreamed.”

Dean looks up from his whiskey glass. “Like – at all?”

The angel shakes his head. “No. I don’t believe I even dreamed when I was briefly human. I’m a bit disappointed.”

Sam and Dean exchange glances.

“Dreams aren’t all that great,” Sam comments.

“It’s good you didn’t have to deal with that crap,” adds Dean.

Castiel shrugs and sips his whiskey

“Still I would have liked to have known what it was like for myself. I have traveled in your dreams, Dean, but I would like to have some of my own,” Castiel confesses.

Dean chokes on his whiskey and glances at Sam who appears to be trying and failing to suppress a smile. 

“Dammit, Cas, don’t go talkin’ about that,” Dean scolds. He slurs his words, losing any attempt at a proper reprimand, but Castiel still looks appropriately apologetic.

Sam loses the battle to keep a straight face and grins stupidly from ear to ear. “What does Dean dream about, Cas?”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean orders, pointing a finger at his little brother.

“Is it embarrassing? Does he dream about being naked in a crowd?” Sam presses, ignoring Dean completely. Castiel nervously glances from between Dean and Sam.

“No…he isn’t usually nude,” Castiel says matter-of-factly.

“Keep your cake hole shut, Cas,” Dean snaps now pointing at Castiel. Sam rolls with laughter.

“So he’s not ‘usually nude’,” Sam muses, wiping tears from his eyes now, he manages to say through his laughs, “But only sometimes?”

Castiel notices Dean’s face flush to a bright red, and he knows it’s not just from the alcohol. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Castiel says trying to salvage the situation. 

Dean finishes his glass of whiskey and slams the glass down on the table. “Look, Sam, if anyone’s getting naked in my dreams it’s the porn stars, okay? That’s what I dream about. Naked women.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but refrains from commenting. Castiel occupies himself with the bottle of whiskey, pouring himself another glass. He really doesn’t like the drink, but he just wants to act busy until Dean stops glaring at him.

“I don’t really remember my dreams,” Sam offers nonchalantly, but Castiel knows he’s lying. Castiel watches over Sam from time to time when he sleeps (not as often as Dean, but often enough), and he has watched Sam toss and turn with his brow wet with sweat at whatever night terrors plague his subconscious. Castiel tries his best to calm him with an angelic touch, but refrains from actually entering Sam’s dreams. For some reason, Castiel only feels comfortable sharing that particular power with Dean. 

“Yeah, whatever. I also dream about strippers,” Dean informs them. Neither Sam nor Cas look impressed. Dean reaches for the whiskey, but accidently knocks it off the table. Castiel catches the bottle before it hits the ground - but not before he manages to slosh a third of the whiskey down his sleeve and onto his pants. 

“Crap, Cas, sorry,” Dean says, jumping up instinctively. He nearly knocks the whiskey bottle over for a second time. 

“Dumbass,” Sam snorts, moving the whiskey bottle away from both Castiel and Dean.

“It’s nothing,” Castiel says. He waves his hand over his sleeve, planning to clean it with his powers. When nothing happens, however, he tries to save face and stands from the table. “I’ll just go clean up.”

Castiel doesn’t wait for the Winchesters to respond before he’s crossing the floor towards the hallways.

Back in his bedroom, he removes his white shirt and pants. He digs in his bag and produces a worn pair of jeans and a wrinkled blue button-up shirt he’d been given during his brief stay at the homeless shelter. He dons his used clothes and turns to collect his soiled garments when there’s a knock at his bedroom door.

Sam peeks his head around the corner. 

“Want me to clean those?” Sam asks pointing to Castiel’s clothes. Castiel hesitates, but Sam doesn’t wait for an answer. He scoops up Castiel's clothes anyway. “This isn’t the first time Dean’s spilled whiskey on something. I got a trick for getting it out of fabric.”

Castiel gives Sam a small smile. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Sam says, backing out the door. He pauses, “Hey, you – you don’t happen to enter my dreams, do you?”

“Do you wish me to?” Castiel inquires, tilting his head. He hopes the answer is no.

Sam gives a short cough. “Uh, no. N-no. It would be boring anyway. Like just watching me do research or whatever.” He doesn’t sound too convincing, but Castiel pretends not to notice his friend’s discomfort. Sam smirks as he changes the topic, “I bet Dean’s dreams are a lot more exciting, huh?”

“You could say that,” agrees Castiel thoughtfully thinking of his last sojourn into Dean’s dreams. It was not a very happy trip, but it did cause a bit of excitement for lack of a better word.

Sam leaves, and Castiel retires to his bed, trying once more to attempt sleep. He listens to the sounds of the Bunker again and can make out the rush of water somewhere in the Bunker’s laundry room where he assumes Sam is cleaning his clothes. 

Castiel closes his eyes and listens for Dean, and locates his sounds closer, in his own room. He hears Dean shuffle about his bedroom, drunkenly stumbling into the desk chair and cursing under his breath. Castiel rolls over in bed and tries to block out the noises of the Bunker once more. 

Castiel attempts to count sheep and imagines a green pasture with several hundred fluffy white creatures. He pictures himself standing among the sheep, counting them one by one by patting them gently on the tops of their heads. The sheep bleat at him and some nibble at his tan coat. Eventually, Castiel finishes counting the sheep he’s first imagined and so he imagines more to count, and so on and so on. 

Sometime after counting his 923rd sheep, he’s pulled out of his thoughts by another knock at his door. He assumes Sam has returned with his clothes and moves across the room to let him in. However, when he pulls open the door, he finds Dean still tipsy and leaning heavily against the doorframe.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says cordially not sure what to expect. Dean’s eyes are bloodshot from the alcohol and he sways a little when he steps into the room. He gives Castiel a sheepish grin. “Dean, how much more have you drunk?” Castiel scolds.

Dean flops down on the end of Castiel’s bed and purses his lips as he thinks. He belches. “Lost count,” he finally admits. 

“I think you should go to bed,” Castiel suggests politely still standing next to the bedroom door.

Dean nods, but doesn’t move. He gestures to Castiel’s change of clothes. “You couldn’t use your mojo to clean up.” 

“No, I couldn’t,” Castiel confesses. 

Dean’s mouth is set in a hard line. He looks down at his hands as he says “You okay, Cas?” He glances up and manages to focus on Castiel’s face. “You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?”

Castiel shifts from one foot to the other, but doesn’t answer. 

“Cas?”

“It’s not important,” Castiel sighs, leaning against the door.

“Bullshit.”

“Go to bed, Dean, you’re drunk,” Castiel fumes. He walks to Dean’s side and tugs him up off the bed with little effort. Dean struggles out of his grasp.

“I tell you about my crap, you gotta tell me about yours,” Dean demands, shoving Castiel away from him. “You gotta tell me these things, man.”

Castiel keeps his voice even as he says, “And what good will it do you to add another worry to your already long list of issues, Dean? My fading Grace is not your concern.”

“Like the Mark of Cain isn’t yours?” Dean counters. 

Castiel and Dean glare at one another for several seconds. Finally, Dean moves as if to step into Castiel’s space – to hit him or embrace him, Castiel’s not quite sure. However, before he can move to retaliate, Dean bends over and pukes all over Castiel’s socks and pant leg. 

“Huh, don’t remember eating that,” Dean manages to murmur as he straightens up and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. 

Castiel stares down at his feet in horror, his mouth agape. 

Dean smirks, still drunk. “Yeah – try cleaning that up with no mojo.”

“Dammit, Dean.”

Twenty-five minutes later after changing his pants for the second time that night and cleaning up Dean’s sick from his bedroom’s doorway, Castiel stands at the industrial-sized sink in the Bunker’s designated laundry room scrubbing at his jeans. Sam hadn’t helped him this time. The younger Winchester had taken one look at the mess his brother had made on Castiel’s clothes (again), thrown up his hands in defeat, and said, “You’re on your own, man.”

Dean hadn’t helped. He stood in Castiel’s room, watching the angel clean up his mess. He hadn’t said a word, but just examined Castiel with a strange intensity as if seeing the angel clearly for the first time that night. 

When Castiel returns to his room with his damp yet newly cleaned jeans and socks, he finds Dean lying on his stomach on the bed. He snores softly and Castiel sighs, pulling his desk chair towards the bed and setting it down next to it. He sits feeling strangely sleepy. Castiel presses down the worry he has for the possible implications of feeling tired might mean about his fading Grace, and focuses instead on Dean’s sleeping form.

A few minutes tick by before, “If you dreamed, what would you dream about, Cas?” Dean mumbles into Castiel’s pillow, watching the angel through half-lidded eyes.

“I thought you were asleep,” Castiel says, shifting his chair closer to the bed.

“You woke me up,” Dean accuses.

Castiel smiles. “My apologies. You vomited on my feet.”

“Yeah – sorry ‘bout that. I think I shouldn’t have had that sixth taco,” Dean muses. He digs his face deeper in to Castiel’s pillow, drawing his arms up to curl them under it. “Still didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t know,” Castiel replies thoughtfully. “I hope if I did ever dream it would be of something nice.”

“Like the dream you made for me?” Dean’s eyes are closed and his words tumble softly from his lips. Castiel leans closer to pull the covers up over him. Dean catches Castiel’s hand and holds it. 

“Perhaps,” Castiel finally answers.

“That was a nice dream,” Dean admits.

“It was,” Castiel agrees. “Are you planning on staying here all night?”

Dean opens one eye. “Can I?”

“Of course.”

Dean falls asleep shortly after still clutching loosely at Castiel’s hand. Castiel sits in his chair and watches over him. Somewhere in the early hours of the morning, Castiel manages to drift off to sleep. When he does, he dreams of riding shotgun in the Impala with Dean.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading. Please leave a comment. I always enjoy reading any feedback you have about my story or writing style. It's very much appreciated!


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